


Hear the Voices Say

by EA_Lakambini



Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [18]
Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: And God responds with song lyrics, Could be in a relationship if you squint, Crowley Questions (Good Omens), Crowley Yells at God (Good Omens), Gen, Good Omens Celebration 2020, I literally could not think of anything else, Introspection, Light Angst, No Plot/Plotless, THAT song stuck in my head and refused to leave, the author is projecting
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-05-18
Updated: 2020-05-18
Packaged: 2021-03-02 19:48:38
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24282349
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/EA_Lakambini/pseuds/EA_Lakambini
Summary: Though Crowley doesn’t like to admit it, he still talks to God sometimes. Usually in his head, and during times that he doesn’t particularly appreciate.
Series: Orbital Resonance: GOC2020 [18]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1725724
Kudos: 8
Collections: Good Omens Celebration





	Hear the Voices Say

**Author's Note:**

> Again, I don't think I interpreted the prompt correctly, but once I started writing it just WOULD NOT STOP.  
> Title is from, of course, Kansas' "Carry On Wayward Son". The song appears in the story, as is inevitable.
> 
> Prompt: wayward.

Crowley decides to take the Bentley out for a drive. It’s been a long day, he’s not in the mood for any more hellish deeds, and sometimes a demon just needs a break.

He’s now zooming on the A2 on the way out of London, heading vaguely south. Not that there’s any particular destination in his mind. It’s the drive that he’s seeking; the speed, the movement, the notion – flawed and maybe even dishonest it may be – that he’s on a journey where he’s in control. That somehow he can keep going, going, going, until he gets there.

**_Carry on, my wayward son._ **

_Ugh, DAMN it._ He’s had a song stuck in his head ever since he’d continued onto the M2. Even after turning up his radio and letting Freddie Mercury fill the silence in the car, there’s still another song pounding in his mind, lyrics just creeping through his thoughts, a blistering guitar solo forcibly twining with the brainwaves. Crowley knows he’d had a hand in inventing earworm songs, but he had also thought that he was immune to it. Sometimes he was, and sometimes – like today – he was strangely powerless.

“Hey, God, if it’s You messing with the Great Radio Station, d’you mind turning it down? This track’s not really my scene; might work for some other demons, though,” he says aloud. As always, there is no answer, but it gets Crowley going.

“You really have a knack for _not listening,_ ” he continues. “Or maybe You do listen, but you’re just choosing not to talk?” He deftly maneuvers the steering wheel, overtaking other cars and lorries, picking up speed. “The last time I got an answer from You, You didn’t even bother to tell me to my face. Just decided to have your angelic lackeys set my wings on fire, fling me off the edge.”

Crowley rolls his shoulders slightly; a phantom pain on his back, a vengeful ghost. “My questions weren’t even that bad. I just wanted to understand. Did I really have to Fall to see beyond the Dark that _You_ created at the edge of Heaven?”

**_Just to get a glimpse beyond the illusion._ **

Crowley is driving faster now, past Rochester and towards Kent. The Bentley responds smoothly to his touch, all efficient gear shifts and engine purrs. He is in control, here.

“And the annoying thing is,” Crowley says, resuming his conversation with one that he knows will never answer. “I can’t even pretend that You don’t exist, that we’re all just hurtling through space and we’re the only ones playing games with each other. Because I _knew_ You, for a while, and You’re not letting me forget it. Your fingerprints are too distinct in every damn play You’ve made in this world. You weren’t content with dice, huh? Got to play poker, blackjack too. Russian Roulette when the roulette wheels aren’t stakes high enough.”

The same song continues to play through his head, the melody pressing to his temples. He’s given up on trying to get rid of it; when it lasts this long, he knows he has to see it through, just let it loop until there’s another song to play. On these kinds of days, he doesn’t get to pick the playlist. It’s _infuriating._

**_I hear the voices when I’m dreaming._ **

Crowley rolls down the window a bit, to let the cool air in. To have a companion of ether and movement and cold; the Bentley feels all too empty tonight. He thinks briefly of who sometimes accompanies him on these drives, then shakes his head as song lyrics continue to course through his mind.

“Did You really intend for me to _not_ be alone for all eternity, but to be just this close?” _Or is it this far away?_ “Should’ve known that one Fall wasn’t enough for You; You play a lot with numbers, you like pairs and sevens and thousands. Wouldn’t put it past You to make me feel the pain of Falling over and over and over, a thousand times, through _this._ This… thing that I’m in now, this life. That – whoops, who’d have thought? – _You_ gave me, too!”

“And here’s what’s fucked up,” Crowley says, raising his voice above the rush of wind. “At the end of it all – the day, the world, whatever – I’m still fucking _grateful._ Holy shit, how messed up did I turn out to be to be like that? Because this life I have now is something I chose. You gave it to me, and thanks, but I’m not giving you the credit for what happened after. I chose it; not Heaven or Hell or _You._ Feel free to tell yourself that You’re pulling the strings; maybe You are but I don’t care. Because what I’ve become doesn’t make sense, and I made it that way, and that choice is _mine.”_

He can feel himself breathing heavily, and he can’t quite explain why. “You want to see what You’ve done? I’m a demon, and I’d give up Heaven again in a heartbeat if You asked, because if I didn’t give it up, I’d never get this life where I have the earth and its silly humans and this car and these choices and an angel.”

**_On a stormy sea of moving emotion._ **

The air isn’t really helping to calm him down; the guitar is increasing in volume in his head, the drum beats pounding alongside his pulse, the singer’s voice crying out almost as loud as he is. Crowley will never punish himself for asking questions; the Almighty does that for him.

“I really don’t understand you, but don’t You think I’ll ever stop trying, because _damn it,_ everything You do just _begs_ for a question. Like this, now. You created angels to love everything, and demons to love nothing. And You created me; You knew this would happen to me, You knew I would choose this way.” Crowley blinks hard, trying to focus on the road. The words are spilling out of him faster now, faster than the wind, faster than the road under his car, faster than any sense of restraint.

These are dangerous places in his mind that he’s entering. He steps on the accelerator.

“So… if I was meant to be a demon, then why did You let me keep this heart? If I wasn’t meant to love, then why do I still – ”

The wind is blowing stronger over the Bentley now, the rush of it louder than his questions.

**_You will always remember._ **

He stops the car on the shoulder of the road, and steps out to take in the view at the coast. Breathes in lungfuls of the sea air. Somehow he’s made it to the White Cliffs of Dover. The waves of the ocean continue a relentless beat against the rock; Crowley can see where winds and water have carved out fissures and crevices, like lines on a page. An unfinished story. The dark streaks of flint are stark against the chalk of the cliffs; it should look marred, imperfect. Such darkness should not belong with the light. But somehow, it is beautiful.

Crowley remembers little of Heaven; there was light and there was space and there were the stars that he made. And he finds, now, standing near the edge of this little island on this little planet, that this is far more glorious than anything he remembers of Heaven or knows of Hell.

**_Nothing equals the splendor._ **

Crowley scans the edge of the cliffs, and sees in the distance, just slightly hidden by fog: a lighthouse. It appears small, almost insignificant against the long stretch of horizon. He can make out the pinprick of light, shining still through the mist, a lone star.

_Oh. There it is. That’s why._

Crowley climbs back into the Bentley, and quickly turns the steering wheel, changing direction. He knows where he wants to be right now, and it isn’t here. He presses down hard on the gas, picking up speed, against the wind. Make a left here, a right there. Choosing his way. Keeps going, going, going, until he gets there.

The drive is now silent, both within the car and within his mind. His thoughts are quiet.

Crowley parks the Bentley and steps out. He takes a deep breath, enters an angel's bookshop, and finally smiles, at Aziraphale waiting for him inside.

**_Surely heaven waits for you._ **

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks for dropping by!


End file.
